


Seven Days of Summer

by vanishing_time



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Falling In Love, First Time, M/M, New Orleans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: A love story set during the New Orleans era.





	1. Chapter 1

_ He's running, rain pouring in his hair, drops splattering, water boiling along his steps. _

 

As he got off the shuttle bus and set foot on the ground, blinded by the colorful chaos of neon lights, House felt like a kid brought to Disneyland for the first time.

New Fucking Orleans. 

He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of this House Paradise of booze and sex, local food and phenomenal musicians: a hedonist’s wet dream. House resisted the urge to hop around like a little girl at the cotton candy stand; instead he let the sweet, sweet smell of summer evening and southern promises fill his lungs before digging not too gracefully into the night.

He even got a cherry on the top of his ice cream: the Jazz Festival that happened to take place in this exact time of the year, and soon he found himself dancing in the crowd in front of a stage to the rhythm of Talkin' All That Jazz, playing the air guitar; and he had all the exotic food to soothe his starving, to caress his nose and his tongue with, crawfish beignets, alligator sausage, po'boy, Cajun jambalaya, Oyster patties, muffulettas… 

And god, the women were barely dressed and dark and breathtaking.

House felt hungry and ecstatic and high. If he believed in personal heaven, his would be this city, and he shamelessly indulged in everything it had to offer. I deserve it, he thought as he took another beer, after a really nasty and unworthy breakup with his last employer. That fucking idiot. Some deans are simply unable to understand that sometimes you just  _ have  _ to do slightly  _ unethical  _ stuff to save a patient. Some manipulation. Pushing people to the edge. Sometimes giving just a little more painkiller than appropriate. 

As long as they lived, House couldn't care less about their personal problems. Caring is not an advantage. Getting involved is also not an advantage.

He grinned as he threw himself down onto a bench, shaking his legs to the rhythm from the stage as he remembered throwing the contract in his former boss' smug face. 

Okay, maybe that wasn't the smartest idea in the world.

Anyway, a little fun wouldn't hurt before tomorrow's convention. He had to find a job somehow, but it could wait a few hours. 

 

He had his guitar with him, and he could choose any part of the city and he could do anything he wanted, so soon he was sitting on the edge of a fountain, playing Queen and Stone Temple Pilots, and people stopped to listen to him and they clapped and threw change and coins into his guitar case; and when he got tired of the people and the noise he caught the first cab, told the driver to take him to the fanciest bar of the city, and he spent his first night listening to a pianist, drinking whisky, flirting with a dark haired girl with legs so long he wanted to tangle between them, smooth back the black hair falling in her face. 

Using his best charm and talking her head off made him get lucky, and he was frantically kissed, bright red lipstick smudging on his mouth, his hand was grabbed and guided to a round, barely covered ass, they made out so shamelessly they got kicked out of the bar, but they didn’t mind.

House thought life couldn't get any better.

 

The slight hangover however begged to differ, and mere existence annoyed the hell out of him the next day.

Also, the girl was gone. 

House felt a slight regret, but in the end he just shrugged. He was sure the city had much more to offer him eventually, but at the moment, there were obligator things to do. The convention was the last place he wanted to be among the pathetic snipper-snappers; three thousand people, and he could tell by the frequency of the noise alone that all of them were just... meh. 

He ordered a coffee at the cafeteria (“Give me the most toxic stuff you have,” he grunted at the counterman) and threw himself down on a seat in the lecture hall, painfully groaning at the stab of pain in his temple. 

“Sweet heavenly manna,” he sighed as he poured the still scorching caffeine down his throat. He cleaned his sunglasses with the tail of his shirt and put it back on. Better not show those bags under his eyes.

As precisely as he'd predicted, he got bored the second the lecturer opened her mouth.

He looked around to study the people instead. There were three thousand damn people, about six hundred in this lecture hall alone, and way too few women for his taste; only boring white guys in suits, daddy's favorites, some soccer boys here and there… That one looked like Ramirez from college; in fact, House was pretty sure it  _ was _ Ramirez, and he sank deeper in his seat, pretending he was invisible. He would deny to hell and back that he'd had anything to do with the chilli sauce incident in sophomore year, but peace was better.

_ Boring bastards. _

His eyes moved over, and then he  _ saw, _ he practically  _ felt _ his pupils dilating, the time stopping, and his hangover instantly disappeared.

 

Thick dark hair, vulnerable features, a mole at the corner of the lips, and eyebrows that could destroy society.

Those were the things that first caught House's attention on the pale, young doctor who was sitting three rows away from him, rubbing the back of his neck, looking sad and confused as he spun a yellow envelope on the desk with a finger, occasionally taking some notes in a neat, leather bound booklet.

_ Left-handed. _

Fascination. Yes, that was the best word to describe what House felt.

_ Is he really a doctor already? Such a baby face he has! _

The essence of neat everyday perfection. House admired physical beauty as much as the next person, but on its own it didn't satisfy him; it was boring after a while, and definitely temporary. 

But something was quite… off, and House narrowed his eyes.

The guy was radiating the endeavor to fit in ― not a single hair out of place, necktie matching the (slightly tight) shirt in material and shade, soft hands, short, shiny fingernails. But underneath…

House slowly grinned, a wicked, cheshire cat grin. 

He could sense the turmoil swirling underneath the bland exterior, he could smell the darkness like a bloodhound, all the things that guy, that  _ boy _ wanted to and managed to hide. Sadness. Frustration. Self-repression. Anger. Melancholy. Aggression, waiting for the smallest opportunity to be unleashed. The need to do something extraordinary, something good, or even bad. The need to get away from it all. House could see these in the hunch of the shoulders, the whitening of fingernails around a bottle of mineral water, the nervous biting of lips. The wrinkling of the corner of the eyes. 

House could sense all of this in that sad, broken boy, and he'd never felt more excited in his life.

 

The lecture ended (“ _ What was it about anyway?” _ ), and House maintained a safe distance, never losing the sight of the guy in the next few hours, who refused to open the envelope he'd been carrying around. 

House tried to guess what could be inside: a formal notice of child support? Perhaps, though he doubted that one could afford a child  _ and  _ a residence at the same time, and still keep the boyish face. Doctors usually can't allow themselves the  _ luxury  _ (House snorted) of having kids until they checked every item on the Doctors' List of Things Necessary To Maintain A Secure Life.

So what was it about? Speeding ticket or something slightly illegal maybe? Drugs? Nah, he wouldn't seem this devastated, he can't be  _ that _ sensitive. 

Of course, House couldn't tell it for sure, he wasn't a psychic after all.

He swiped aside the idea that maybe somebody died. He doubted that anyone would send the condolence letter to a convention. And nobody would wait to open it.

Then he could feel a light bulb appear above his head as he followed the boy through the door of the nearest buffet.

(Damn, he had a pretty bottom. 

Not that House was into guys.

Okay, he might have entertained the idea once. Maybe twice. Maybe.

Now where was he?)

_ Alimony...? _

So, House came to the conclusion, they were most likely divorce papers. He got his confirmation when he saw the young doctor-to-be sitting at a table with a single, small sandwich, puttering with the ring on his finger, pulling it off before hesitantly putting it back again.

Definitely divorce papers. From a wife who's not in town but knows exactly where the husband would be. What a rude bitch. House already hated her, even in theory.

Poor fellow. House would have felt sorry for him if he valued relationships and marriage, but he wasn't very fond of the topic. On the other hand, the boy seemed like a sensitive one; House considered offering him a shoulder to cry on, though he rolled his eyes at the idea. He was bored out of his brains, and he thought a drinking buddy would spice up this stupid convention. If the flawless faced guy turns out to be stupid or dull, he can get rid of him in no time. 

But he trusted his instincts.

He pretended to be looking at the lunch choices when the guy stood and left, not even touching his sandwich. House causally grabbed it as he followed him into another lecture hall, taking a bite. 

He hadn’t really decided what to do next, but damn, did he have ideas.

The second lecture started and ended as well as the third one, but House couldn’t have concentrated if his life depended on it. He couldn't even have recalled what the topics were. He prayed for the guy not to leave earlier ‘cause it would’ve been a little more than suspicious if he immediately followed him. 

But no, the boy was a good little doctor, and good doctors watch and learn. 

And, hopefully, let out some steam every once in a while.

House eventually followed him to a bar, hypnotized, like a moth drawn to a lamp. He waited for a while before going in and asking for a whisky, then settling down at a table in the background, as unobtrusively as he could ― after all, he didn't want to be mistaken for a creep, did he? He was unusually tense, and needed to drink something before approaching the guy, who was sitting at a table next to the wall, staring in front of himself with such a gloomy face that House curled his fingers in sympathy. 

He looked around, waiting for an opportunity.

 

A guy in worn jeans and flannels and a baseball hat with a naked woman's silhouette on it, so stereotypical that House grinned, fumbled with the music box awkwardly, putting on Crazy For You and Baby Got Back; he was probably more than a little drunk and likely he had a woman on his mind because why else on earth would one play only cheesy songs if not out of nostalgia for something that once might have been good? 

“Leave a Tender Moment Alone” was not a bad song, but it wasn't  _ that  _ good either, but the guy put it on at least three times in a row, wiping a single tear off the corner of his eye. House cringed and glanced at ‘his’ boy who was still drinking, looking extremely unhappy and slightly annoyed about the song choice, but not paying attention to them.

House felt a shit eating grin spread on his face.

He approached the guy ― he nicknamed him Wade in his mind. He had a Wade-ish face.

“I'll give you fifty bucks to keep playing this song.” He laid two tens and a twenty on the table, along with a pile of quarters. 

'Wade' looked at him, eyes a little unfocused, but suspicious still. “What, the Billy Joel?”

“Yeah, this one will do.”

“Why?”

House shrugged.

“How many times?“ 'Wade' wanted to know.

“As many as it takes.” House was smiling innocently.

“As it takes to do what?”

“No idea,” House said, winking at him. “I'm curious what will happen. It's an experiment.”

“You got too much time on your hands, my dude”, 'Wade' said, but he didn’t seem to look for logic here, but eyed the cash, considering the offer. 

“What could happen? It's just a song.”

“Seventy-five,” said 'Wade' suddenly. “And another Heineken.”

“Deal,” House said, his smile sharp like a serrated knife.

Sometimes people needed a little push.

 

Now that House set the trap so nicely, he sat down and waited, and apparently the dilemma of what to do next solved itself sooner than he imagined. He barely even had the time to gulp down his drink before the party started. His instincts have definitely proved that they can be trusted, and he grinned like an idiot at the sound of yelling, the mirror breaking, a woman screaming. He ducked as a bottle flew across the bar, mere inches above his head.

Damn, did he adore this city and the people it offered him.

 

He was perversely amazed by the almost film noir-ish aesthetic of the scuffle that quickly escalated: the roaring of the cops, the artistic colors of bruises and black eyes, the little doctor's panicked and guilty face as he was watching the fight he didn't intend to start. House felt like Christmas had been brought forward this year ― not that he liked Christmas, but he liked surprises.

It was almost too easy, he only had to ask the last cop in line where they were taking the guy with the rest of the partygoers. (He couldn't see 'Wade' anywhere, that smooth bastard was probably the first one to get away. Thank god, House might have felt guilty had he been jailed.)

“Are you a relative or something?” The cop asked, and House gave him the best concerned caretaker face he could manage.

“Yeah, he's my, uh, cousin, he's going through a hard time. I go to take a piss and he immediately throws a tantrum. Kids these days…” He faked a laughter.

The cop wasn't impressed with his immediacy, but in the end he just shrugged.

“Fine, Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard. Bring a lot of cash if you want him back.”

 

The amount of money House had to pay made him flinch, but he decided to give it a try anyway.

_ You better be worth it, buddy. _

And there they were, outside in the summer evening. The young doctor was rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs chafed his skin, briefly touching the bruise above his lips with his tongue, looking even more confused than before.

“Well… thanks. Uhm… I don't really know what I did to deserve this, and what to do for you in return. I'll pay you back if you give me your―”

Aw, weren't he sweet.

“You don't owe me anything.”

“You―you don't want your money?”

Well, that sure was tempting. 

Nah, focus on the goal. “Nope.”

“Then, uh… I don't understand.”

Damn, those eyebrows as they were rising towards the hairline. House tried his best not to snicker.

“You looked interesting.”

More rising.

“Did I?” To be honest it sounded a little bit like 'are you gay?' “And…?”

“And I thought you could use some fun before rushing back to the shitstorm of your life, have a drink with me, talk about women and cars and other manly things, because I'm a great company.”

That really did come out gayer than House intended, and the man eyed him suspiciously, his brows furrowing.

“What shitstorm are you talking about?”

“Your divorce.” House received a stunned and mistrustful glance as he handed over the envelope. The guy left his briefcase in the bar, and of course House had to go through his stuff. He mentally patted himself in the shoulder for guessing correctly. Not that it was hard. “It's in your papers. I have to say I'm quite impressed that I got it right.”

The guy looked it him with impossibly widening eyes as the realization hit him. He must have been a little drunk too.

“Wait a minute… You― you were the one who wanted to play the song on repeat, weren't you?”

“Nope, I’m innocent,” House beamed at him.

“You were  _ stalking  _ me, then deliberately annoyed me, making bets with yourself about me?”

Well, that surely was an expressive face.

“What an ugly word. I'd rather say I was 'observing'.”

“Just wow.” The annoyance turned into something akin to appreciation. “Are you always this… meddlesome?”

“Yes.”

“And arrogant,” the guy said, but his unexpected smile belied his words, and revealed a dimple on his left cheek. House knew for sure this was going to be fun.

“It's self-confidence, not arrogance, but people tend to confuse the two.”

“I rest my case. And what makes you assume that I want to talk, and I won't ask you again instead to let me give you back your money?”

“Oh, I like when people beg me and offer me c-notes, but I've told you, you don't owe me anything.”

“Except my time.” The guy now seemed entertained. Which was a good sign.

“You look like the type who doesn't just simply shake someone off. You're a grateful one.”

“How in the hell would you know―”

“Besides, I know you'll insist on paying me back eventually, at least if you'll have anything left after your alimony. Sentencing you to pay is a shame, by the way.”

Damn those eyebrows, they were seriously giving him a dance performance. “Oh yeah, I forgot you peeked into my underwear. So do you think you know me and my decisions? By first glance?”

“People are my  _ speciality.” _

“I sense irony. Maybe it's not my gratefulness you believe in, but your own ability in rating people without being mistaken.”

Now it was House's turn to give him the eyeroll of the century.

“Man, you always this over-analyzing? And  _ I'm  _ the one who believes he knows everything.”

“Don't you like the tables turned on you?”

The corners of House's mouth twitched.

“I prefer other things turned on me. Or turned on  _ by  _ me. Now, you wanna drink or what?”

A moment of silence, and the boy looked at him with a confused smile, and there was that neck-rubbing again, accompanied by an unbelieving head shaking. House was starting to develop a crush. He waited patiently for the other to make up his mind, already feeling the taste of victory.

“You’re a creeper, and to be honest that freaks me out, but...” House held his breath. “I like it, and actually, you weren't that much mistaken. So I guess… why not.”

House mentally boxed into the air, and let his inner grin manifest itself on his lips. 

“Knew it. And by the way, that really is an irritating song.”

The guy laughed and held out his hand. “Wilson. James Wilson. It is a damn annoying song, especially twenty times in a row, and I already hated it by the time my wife and I got to dance to it at our wedding.”

Of course House had already found out his name, and much more, but he wouldn't point that out. Wilson reminded him of a curious fox on the verge of deciding if the kind human is a friend or a foe: destroy his trust and he'd run away forever.

“Greg House. Wanna bet I can make you like it?”

Wilson's handshake was firm and polite. “You have my curiosity.”

House wanted to annoy this marshmallow for the rest of his life. 

 

The morning ― more like noon ― found House in his hotel room, standing above the ruins in his underpants, his hands covering his nose and mouth as he eyed the scene before him. A bunch of half empty bottles and junk food wrappings and cigarette decks and... a sack of weed? Oh boy.

He calculated the chance of success if he ran away without paying for destroying the whole minibar, and came to the conclusion that maybe being on the run for the rest of his life would be more worth it, when there was a knocking on the door.

At this hellish hour.

He took a sneak peek at the peephole and immediately ducked down like he was struck by lightning.

“Shit!”

He sank to his knees and started to crawl towards the room. Really elegant.

“House...?”

Wilson had just climbed off his side of the twin bed in his shorts and dress shirt he'd slept in (he certainly slept more than House who barely had enough space left, so he just kept hanging halfway off the bed for a good part of the night), looking rumpled, his sleep-clouded eyes widening at the sight of House on the floor. 

_ Great.  _

Wilson yelped in surprise when House grabbed his wrist and yanked him down next to him. “Quiet!”

“House, the fummph―”

“If you don't shut up,” House whispered as he covered Wilson's mouth with his hand, “I'm gonna push my fingers up your nostrils, straight into your sinuses.”

“Hoo ahr wee hiding fhom?” Wilson muffled voice was tickling House's palm. 

House shot a warning glance at him.

“My mom,” he whispered tensely. “How the hell does she always know where I stay? Shouldn't she be in Jersey?”

“You're hiding from your  _ mom _ ?”

“Sssshhh!”

They waited for what seemed like an eternity.

“How long do we wanna keep perching here?” Wilson whispered at last.

“I said shhh! Until she gets bored and gives up.”

Another knocking.

“House, this is stupid, I'm gonna answer―”

“You stay right here and shut your face―”

But Wilson slipped out from his fingers, and House watched stunned as he took off his shirt, throwing it back onto House's head.

_ What the ever loving _ ―

Wilson grabbed a towel from the bathroom door and wrapped it around his waist, successfully covering his shorts. "Keep hiding," he mouthed and went to answer the door.

_ This is an idiot. _

House peeked from behind the corner with his eyes wide open as Wilson answered the door in all his half naked glory, but he hid again as soon as the door opened. He caught a few words though. 

“I'm so sorry, but he's not here.” Wilson took out the smoothest, most alluring voice House had ever heard, and he couldn't believe his ears.

_ I swear to god if you seduce my mom in front of my own two eyes, I'm gonna kill you. _

“Ah, what a pity. I'm on a vacation and I hoped I'd surprise him here,” House heard Blythe's voice, and it made him feel guilty a little. For, say, a fraction of a nanosecond. A Planck time. But then his mom chuckled, and it went away. “Some people give out information for only a sweet smile and a few kind words.” House heard two voices laughing in agreement, and he snorted. ”And who are you, dear?”

“I'm his, uh, colleague, we're here for the conference. House, uh, Greg went back to Jersey yesterday. I have some personal things to get done, so I stay for another day.”

House heard consentient murmur and a few unclear sentences as he covered his face in his hand.

“You're such a sweet young man, I can't believe Greg haven't talked about you. ( _ “Sweet young man! _ ” House mimicked to the ceiling painfully.) Please tell him that I was looking for him, would you? I don't want to uphold you, you might catch a cold.”

House heard chuckling and chatting about nephews, moms, taxi drivers and cats, and then the smack of a goodbye peck, and he didn't know whether to snicker or roll his eyes at his ridiculous life.

The door closed, and he looked up when Wilson poked him with his big toe, and grabbed his shirt that was still hanging stupidly around House's neck. 

“I swear you behave like a five years old.”

“Says the _ ‘Sweet young man’ _ who opens the door shirtless. Was she alone?”

Wilson looked at him for a second as he fumbled with the buttons, smiling, but raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah, why? Why are you hiding from her,  _ 'Greg' _ ? She seemed like a cool lady. I even got a face kiss."

House ignored the dreamy sound of Wilson's voice. He didn't feel like explaining his parental issues, as kind and helpful as Wilson was. He didn't tell anyone about these things ever, in fact; people have their own problems, why would they care?

But Wilson was looking at him curiously, expectantly, so he reluctantly said, "If she's here, it must mean that my dad is here. I'm mainly hiding from  _ him. _ ”

“He wasn't here. Do they always travel together? I mean, I think people might want to spend some time separately after a few decades of marriage.”

“Most of the time. Better safe than sorry.”

“You're not too fond of him.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“As they say, ‘Fuck you, Watson.’” 

House shrugged.

"I don't want to talk to them." 

What could he say to his parents anyway? That yes, he's got a job, yes, he's successful, yes, he's finally got a relationship with a nice woman? Yes, he's going to settle down and have kids? Yes, he's not an ass anymore?

Yes, he's forgotten all the shit?

“Will you call her at least?”

“My god, he keeps speaking. You lie easily.”

“My god, he keeps deflecting. Fluently if necessary, a useful talent I earned at home. So, will you?” 

“Marry you? Nah, I'm too young and I want to live a little first.” 

Wilson cast a 'please be serious just for a second' glance at him, but his lips curled upwards. 

House made a face. “Would you just let it go?”

“If you insist. But I'd call her if I were you, she seemed worried.” 

“Your nipples must have put a spell on her, and that must have been her lustful brow furrowing. Why did you take off your shirt by the way?”

”I was counting on her maternal instincts, that the fear of me catching a cold right after a shower won't let her talk to me for too long.”

“It's frigging June.”

“Yeah, but you know how moms are, and I was right!” Wilson seemed really pleased with himself. “Man, things with you seem to move fast. I slept in your bed―”

_ Unfortunately, only slept-slept. _

“Yeah 'cause you were so drunk I didn’t trust you to find your own shoes, let alone the next corner.”

“I'm not objecting. I bet that by the time I'll get back to Boston, I'm going to meet your whole family. Want me to call you Greg from now on?”

“Not even at my funeral. Anyway, my father would kiss your ass―”

“Like husband, like wife.”

“―'cause you're the exemplar of a perfect nice son he'd want  _ me _ to be.”

“Me, a nice son, already divorced at 25? Yeah, sure. Anyway, if I'm to meet your dad, I'll definitely introduce you to Mabel, my great aunt. She's eighty-four, but last time it took three of us to pry her off my cousin's bike. You'd love each other.”

“You must love a large family, that's why  _ you _ married I suppose, and ‘cause of your fear of sticking out. Mabel is a badass lady and she and I are gonna destroy all your Hanukkah dinners. Was it a camping bike?”

_ “Or _ maybe I married because I was in love, or something stupid like that, don't you think? It was a  _ motor _ bike. What's with this marriage fixation of yours?”

“My marriage fixation is a fairly new thing, it probably originates from listening to you complain about yours all night long. Why aren’t you hungover anyway?”

Wilson snorted.

“Youth and quick metabolism. And you gave me water which was quite a nice move. My marriage is still not as  _ complainable  _ as your so-called career.”

House tried to act insulted, but he enjoyed this banter far too much.

“Ow, that hurt. My career would be perfectly fine if those little cunts just let me do my job.”

“You know how these evil deans are, always trying to abide by the law. The family dinners are goddamn horrible by the way; it's a cliché, but I don't even know half of the people attending.”

”Time to make them interesting then.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“It depends on whether you're all in or not.”

Wilson grinned at him naughtily, and as House winked back, he played with the thought that maybe… maybe friends existed even for him.


	2. Chapter 2

_ His heart is beating wildly against his ribcage, his foots hits the ground with vibrating tremors across his joints, his lungs are screaming for more air. _

 

“I'd be really annoyed if someone murdered you on the way home, and the police had me investigated on this beautiful evening.”

House had insisted on calling Wilson a cab when they’d said goodbye at least, getting a grimace (“How attentive!”) and grin in return; and now it was late night, and House was sitting in the bathtub, daydreaming at the ceiling.

Today he’d had the most fun in years, if not in decades.

He’d dragged Wilson to the Jazz Fest, surprised to find out that Wilson knew many of the bands and wasn’t afraid to show off his horribly flat voice, singing loudly along with The Meters, bouncing on his feet in the crowd with his eyes closed. House had rolled his eyes and pretended he’d had nothing to do with him, but then Wilson had caught him trying to slip further away, pulling him back by his t-shirt.

House took a deep breath, sinking deeper in the tub. Memories, memories.

Of himself, looking for a bathroom when he’d caught a glimpse of the official poster of the fest at a shooting gallery. Remembering that Wilson had a massive poster collection, he aimed and won (okay -- he might have bribed the keeper). Wilson accepted it practically jumping around like a kid, making House really amused as he’d begun raving about his collection for the second time. Better get this kid even more drunk.

House ran his fingers across his lips, tasting water, tasting skin. Not the taste he wanted.

Spice and heat on his tongue. He recalled Wilson pulling him into a jalapeño eating contest and beating the hell out of him. Not that House had minded. Only his guy could be cute with tears and snot pouring from his face.

He imagined a spicy kiss for a nanosecond.

Wilson’s huge, warm eyes twinkling with alcohol and the remnants of capsaicin as he kept buying bourbons after bourbons for them, and House was pretty sure that was when the part of him trying to make sense of this had been totally drowned.

He shoved the image of Wilson sleeping soundly with his limbs spread all across his bed, merely a few hours after they met, to the back of his mind. 

Suddenly, he decided.

_ “Attending a ball, in the classic sense, here in NO tomorrow 8pm. I'm allowed to take a date if u wanna come. Might do good to our careers.” _

There, that text should make it. Let’s see if Wilson gets the 'date' part. 

But even himself wasn't sure what was the correct way to interpret it.

He assumed he might need to wait for the answer for a while, but his phone beeped in the next few minutes.

_ “Count me in, not too eager to go home. But no ass grabbing before marriage! :-) Dress code/address?” _

House felt a slight stirring in his loins, but he was too damn tired to do anything about it.  _ Not now, boys, _ he thought, and relaxed back into the warm water. The response can wait.

 

This was going to be the second time they ever met, and Wilson was late.

Boy, it was so goddamn dull, the empty chattering, the meaningless smiles; but House had to build some connections to get a job.

He bit down on a yawn.

_ “Text me when you're here. The weather is 72 degrees of boring, with a 40% chance of me punching someone in the face.” _

Evening, Jason, thanks for inviting me. No, my date is not here yet. Haha, no, just kidding, I'm not seeing anyone nowadays. Really. How is your son? Wow, is he that big already? 

_ Like I give a damn about people after they grow teeth. _

Boy, how he hated to make a prostitute out of himself. But things had to be done. He ran out of options, and he spent a great chunk of his savings on Wilson's bail. And on that goddamn attorney.

His phone beeped.

_ “Almost there, cab stuck in traffic. Please try not to murder anyone for a little longer.” _

Great, how's your girlfriend, Lisa? No, really, she's got accepted to Michigan? Well, give her my congratulations. Can't wait to see her. Actually, I'll have a friend arrive here I'd like you to meet. Oh, he might be calling me right now, would you excuse me for a second?

“I'm here.“

_ About time. _

House looked around. “Where?”

“Just behind you.”

He turned, and for a moment his breath was taken away. He tried his best not to show it as he slowly lowered his phone, but he got the impression that he failed miserably.

Wilson was stepping through the door, looking… great. Really great. The tiredness and light of betrayal was almost completely gone from his face, his hair was brushed smooth, and the tuxedo he wore suited him just perfectly, highlighting his shoulders, his narrow waist, his flat stomach, matching his eyes that were shining dark in the chandelier light. House was stunned by how  _ young  _ Wilson actually seemed ― with a glimpse of sadness, but hopeful and ready to start a new life. He looked way better than in the shirts he'd been wearing after his stupid wife had shrunk them. 

_ Ex-wife.  _

Damn, why did that tiny word make House so contented? 

Wilson greeted him with a shy smile that gently tugged on House's chest. “Hi.”

_ Fuck. _

He shaked Wilson's hand, carefully avoiding holding it for too long.

“Finally, it was getting awkward drinking alone. I see you took the time to get pretty,” House said as casually as possible, but he couldn't resist, he briefly placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder. 

Wilson fumbled with his bow tie, pulling the string away from his neck and letting it slap back against his collar. “Man, it's hard to find a decent and affordable clothing rental in this city. I only got this ready-tied bow and now I feel like a fraud.”

“Fake ties for the party of fake people, don't think it's a faux pas. Have a whiskey, and then I'll introduce you to Jason. He's a self-centered, snob jerk, but he knows people and open positions, and if you're skillful enough, someday you too will be able to own a house like this. With hard work, of course. And a little ass-kissing. Oh, and there's Lisa; you'll see.”

“I'd love to own a house,” Wilson smirked, following him into the crowd.

 

_ Faster. Run faster. Run, run, run. _

 

He can remember the shadows dancing on Wilson's sharp cheekbones in the corridor as they were wandering around the mansion ― they both got fed up with the noisy and cheap people after a while, the blank chatting, the conversations consisting of nothing but lies of the efficiency of drugs with medicinal agents ―, talking about cases and cars and literature and politics, possible jobs and Wilson's residency and women and Canada (House lost it at Wilson's impression of the Canadian accent of his “oncolgy-- onc-- oncology professor”) and infectious diseases and vacation plans with cheerful, easy ordinarity. 

Wilson was laughing that wide-mouthed laughter of his, eyes twinkling with inebriation and amusement as he listened to House's funniest childhood stories; and House's heart skipped a few beats. It was good to see Wilson without his worries and sadness. So, so good. Happy Wilson was more fascinating than betrayed and disappointed Wilson. He seemed more open. More carefree. Much more  _ exciting.  _

A man of much potential yet to discover, and boy, did House love to make him laugh.

He felt a predatory clench in his stomach, but he didn't waste the time to analyze it, not when Wilson was talking and joking loudly, coaxing his secrets out of him. 

Somehow House didn't mind sharing things with him at all. Not just about himself, of course.

“So, there is Lisa whom you already saw, and you won't believe―”

“House, you're the biggest gossip whore I've ever known,” Wilson said, but his amused blinking belied his words. “Please tell me all her dirty little secrets.” 

“Knew it. So the thing is, Jason is, guess what, is her father's best friend, and let me tell you, she's an idiot for staying with him when she could have chosen  _ me.” _

“You? What an opportunity to miss.” Wilson's voice was dripping with sarcasm as he playfully poked House in the shoulder. “Maybe you're too young for her taste.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I had her once a few years ago when she was barely legal ― no, don't laugh, really. I met her one (one!) time in a bookstore, and then she hunted down a class I was in just to audit it… I have to admit that her efforts were remarkable, she deserved the price. So I gave her everything she wanted. And yet...” House released a theatrical sigh.

“Maybe your uhm, unorthodox healing methods or rugged good looks don't work for her. My looks, on the other hand...” Wilson smiled serenely and pointed at himself with his hands.

“I know what you want to hear ― that  _ you're  _ in my league.”

“Uh, that's not what―”

“Shut up and drink.”

House snatched two glasses of champagne from a nearby tray, and then Wilson had stopped asking him about different women and mocking him with over-exaggerated Freudian analysis about House's relationship with his mom, and now was talking about how Henry Miller's and Hawthorne's novels he found in his father's home library influenced him. 

“And what's  _ your  _ favourite book?” he asked.

“I also do love classic literature, like 'Lesbian Prison Stories',” House answered, smirking when Wilson almost spit out his drink. 

Coughing and chuckling, Wilson wiped his mouth. His teary eyes widened in sudden realization, and when he caught his breath, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

“Almost forgot! Here,” he said, and handed a tiny object to House, so small that at first House didn't realize it was a book.

_ The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. _

Wilson was putting his weight from one leg to another, curling and stretching his fingers. He looked almost as abashed as House felt. “A pocket edition. I saw this in an antique store today and reminded me of you. It's about unusual clinical cases: visual agnosia, Korsakoff's, completely damaged proprioception and stuff. Maybe even you'll find something new in it.”

House couldn't reply for a few moments ― yet another thing that didn't happen often.

“I―I told you you don't owe me anything.”

“It's not payback, House, it's a present,” Wilson said in a warm tone. “As alienated as you want to appear, I'm sure the concept of presents is not unknown to you.”

House put the book away into his pocket. He'll definitely read this in bed tonight.

“I'm… not used to it. Thanks.” Embarrassed, he changed the subject. “And are you feeling better now that the snake is out of your life?”

“Snake...? Oh, yeah.” Wilson blinked rapidly a few times at the conversation switch before genuinely considering the thought. “Yeah, I've been thinking about it a lot. Should have seen the signs earlier. A part of me still loves her of course, and first I thought that maybe I should fight for her, but then I… realized I don't want to. You were right, I should move on. People who give up on people this easily are not worth crying over.”

_ You bet. _

“That's the spirit!”

Wilson's smile broadened on his lips as he stared at House with his usual, curious interest ― even with a hint of longing, House dared to assume, and he felt his own mouth curl into an answering half-smirk. 

When Wilson put down his glass ― his hand trembling slightly, House noticed in the back of his mind ― and stepped closer to him, eyes brown and burning, House leaned back against the wall. 

No, they didn't need to speak the words.

When Wilson's exhale dampened his face, House inhaled, heart racing wildly in his chest. 

_ Want me?  _ Wilson asked, wordlessly.

When those lips were ghosting over his cheek, House let his eyes close.

_ Want you,  _ he answered, silently.

The next thing he knew he was pressed hard against the wall, he felt a nanosecond of hesitation and warm breath before thick, soft lips melted onto his;

and just as the heat began to scorch his body and his soul, suddenly Wilson drew back, looking at him with a tiny smile of all the world's vulnerability and pleading;

and House looked back at him, all the world's starvation pooling in his stomach before he grasped Wilson's nape to pull him back to his own hungry mouth, feeling those long arms twine around his neck,

and House's lips opened under the assault of Wilson's equally ravenous kiss, his arms wrapped themselves around Wilson's back, he could only think _ finally, you bastard, finally, _ as if even kissing at their first meeting would have felt belated.

Wilson tasted incredibly good, and House got dizzy feeling another man's kiss, subconsciously looking for the differences to women’s lips but not finding  _ that  _ many; but through the fog of pleasure a small part of his brain that was still functioning rationally warned him to move to a more private place.

He blindly groped Wilson's waist with one hand, nudging him towards the nearest door, fumbling for the handle. Thankfully it was open, and he broke the kiss, looking at Wilson's flushed face for the briefest moment before pulling him into the darkness, hastily closing the door and locking it, turning the lights on. 

They entered a working room, with giant bookshelves like those of a library, huge, heavy curtained windows, antique oak furniture; he noted the details with the sharpness of senses that occur when one feels terrified, the sudden quiet louder than yelling. 

He listened to his own elevated breathing, watching Wilson's snobbism-appreciating face that only lasted for a second before the man, his boy flung himself at him to kiss him again, and House collided with the door so hard that he thought he was going to faint. 

Wilson looked in his eyes with fevered wonder and red lips. “You're taller than me.”   
“You’re a better observer than the Hubble telescope,” House whispered, pulling him closer.

“I just… never kissed anyone taller than me,” Wilson answered before diving in again; and House's groan of pleasure mixed with a single yelp of pain as Wilson bit his lower lip, not letting him have any second thoughts to question his sexuality ― not that he didn't question it a hundred times ―, but it wasn't necessary anyway, because Wilson's moaning as he suckled on House's tongue was the most natural, most appropriate sound in the world, his gender didn't count at all, no, not at all. 

Everything felt so good, so ridiculously  _ right,  _ Wilson's clean-shaven face so, so smooth as their cheeks slid against each other, his hot, young body smelled of deodorant and testosterone and male pheromones, his skin sweaty through the dampening clothes. 

Maddening.

Intoxicating.

Addictive...

Wilson kept releasing desperate sighs into House's mouth, inhaling his breath.

“You―! You're something else, you make me feel―” The rest of his sentence was muffled by smacking kisses on his mouth, on his face, but it still made House's blood fizz in his veins and rush directly into his groin, and he felt himself growing harder with each word.

He let Wilson push him against a wide, glass-covered desk, maybe mahogany, cold and sharp under his butt as he sat on it, spreading his legs invitingly for Wilson to step between them; and he did, the hard, unmistakable length of his erection pressed against House's own. House groaned loudly because he'd never felt anything like that before, he'd never touched another man before, and the experience was too fast and too much even for his brain to process, but exciting and wonderful nevertheless. 

Wilson was staring straight into his eyes, intensely watching his reactions, his brows furrowed in insecurity and worry, giving House another nanosecond of chance to back off; but then he was already rolling his hips, his tongue plunging once again in House's mouth, soft and tasting of champagne, and he frantically ran his hands through House's hair before changing pace to tenderly map his face, brushing his fingertips over House's ears.

House allowed himself the luxury to whimper, the small amount of self-consciousness he felt under Wilson's gaze had faded completely, and he let himself be ravished, with Wilson there was no need to be ashamed, there was no need to pretend to be someone else. The fabric of their thin, fancy pants gave enough tease and friction as they ground their hips against each other, making House feel like he'd just died and went to heaven. 

Wilson fumbled at House's collar, loosened his tie so he could press his open mouth to his neck, licking, sucking gently; and House twined his fingers in Wilson's hair and tugged on it, wanting to dishevel him, ruin him, mess him up, get him rid of his neat composure. God, it was blessing, and he was suckling on Wilson's jaw, panting in his ear, and Wilson groped his thighs, pulling him closer, pressing his groin against his with increasing urgency. 

House stroked his hand over Wilson's back, noting how broad it was, his mind still inspecting and storing the differences between male and female anatomy under these circumstances, noting every little tremble vibrate across Wilson's body, every sigh, every heartbeat, pulling Wilson's shirt out of the waistband and slipping his hand under it. 

Wilson's bare skin felt so warm, silky, almost otherworldly, but then House's fingertip brushed over a mole and he smiled against Wilson's mouth,  _ Doctor Flawless is not so perfect after all, _ he thought dazedly, illogically as his hand wandered below the pants and his fingers dug into the flesh of that pretty, shapely ass; and Wilson gasped, then smiled into their thousandth kiss, and they held onto each other, sweating and panting and desperate.

Wilson's body felt strong and enormous as he was pushing against House, rocking and writhing between his thighs. 

“Yes― do me,” House gasped, wrapping his legs around Wilson's, pulling him even closer, caressing his shoulders, his arms, losing himself in the waves of illogical, irresistible joy. Wilson moaned in answer, finally reaching between their bodies and tugging down his own zipper, not able to control himself anymore.

House's breath stuck in his throat as he looked down, expecting what he would see, but he bit his lip nevertheless at the sight of Wilson's exposed, slick, beautiful cock.

_ Fuck.  _

_ Holy fuck…  _

The realization that he really was having sex with a man hit him so hard he almost pushed Wilson away; but his desire was stronger than his reflexes and dismay. 

No, he didn't want to stop.

His fingers tightened on Wilson's arms.

He must have made the stupidest face ever because Wilson laughed at him softly; but as House looked up, he met not a mocking, but an expectant gaze, twinkling with lust. 

“Take yours out― wanna touch you,” Wilson whispered at last, meddling at House's fly, groaning in satisfaction when House obeyed and undid his pants. 

House noticed how Wilson couldn't help but stare at him for a while, exactly the same way House did before, tongue wetting his mouth, fingers tentatively stopping in mid air for a second before brushing along the underside of House's erection; how he finally yanked himself out of this trance, leaning down and taking House's lower lip between his in a deep, sensual kiss that sent sparks along House's spine. 

“Like this?” Wilson breathed as he pressed closer, his cock hot against House's, and rolled his hips.

“Hell yeah, like this,” House murmured back.

Time seemed to stop for a moment or for an eternity in a swirl of smell of hormones, heat, wet sounds; and House thought he could do this forever, and he thought he was going to come in the next second at the feel of Wilson's cock and his hand around them both, and he thought that maybe there was life after death and he held a creature made of stardust and light between his arms… 

Wilson was panting, the fingers of his other hand tightening in House's shirt under his open jacket, over his ribcage, trembling for self-control. “Wish I could just rip your clothes off,” he whispered, voice wild and delicious, making House shiver; what a naughty mouth that boy had, he thought, and he captured that naughty mouth with his yet again.

Soon, Wilson's lips went slack around their kiss, and he leant on his knuckles, letting House's hand switch places with his instead as he thrust again and again; he laid his forehead against House's, their eyes meeting in a conjoined pond of huge pupils, warm and cold colours; and it really wasn't long before Wilson's breath hitched, he gave a last, forceful twist of his hips, throwing his head back and he  _ smiled,  _ no, he  _ laughed, _ shaking and unbelieving; and House felt wetness pulsing onto his groin through his fingers.

The feel of Wilson's come, the knowledge of him coming in his arms, his strange, arousing happiness made him lose control, too; he pressed his aching cock to the other man's lower stomach, holding onto him, panting and wheezing, fuck yes, just a little more; and Wilson didn't let him go, clasping him and huffing in his neck, leisurely rubbing their hips together, making joyful, unintelligible sounds as House rutted against him; and House felt a tongue brush his ear as he cried out with the pleasure that claimed him, squeezing Wilson's body to his as tightly as he could.

He didn't know what this meant. He couldn't wrap his rational mind around it. But as Wilson lay down on top of him with slowing breath, House was blatantly, adamantly sure that he'd never felt anything like this during his thirty-two years on Earth.

The book, Wilson's present was pressed against his chest between their heaving bodies, and suddenly he  _ needed  _ to ask.

“Wilson…” He hated how rough his voice sounded in the now silent room. “How do you I make you feel?”

The murmur of the party could be heard from the outside, but there was a tiny world in here for just the two of them, and everything was too intense. Everything was too harsh.

Wilson straightened slowly, hesitantly, and when he finally looked at House, in his eyes there were thousands of storms, millions of worlds in collision. His lips parted, but it took him a few seconds to gain courage to actually form the word.

“… Free.”

And House realized that addiction is a very dangerous thing.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued. I had enough of them suffering, so I wanted to write a more or less traditional story about falling in love and getting over the first hardships.  
> Thanks for blackmare for the bar scene idea. :) <3


End file.
